


(No One Can) Rewrite The Stars

by Hcpelesshcney



Series: song fics [1]
Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I'm really sorry about this I've just been sad lately oof, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), M/M, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 13:56:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15511347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hcpelesshcney/pseuds/Hcpelesshcney
Summary: It feels like he’s stuck in cement, watching Cyrus walk away. TJ calls after him, voice cracking, but he doesn’t stop. As he walks away, Cyrus visibly closes himself off. He makes himself as small as he can, tucks his arms around himself, and disappears into the hazy afternoon.





	(No One Can) Rewrite The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Oof okay first of all, I would like to formally apologize for the pure angst that's going to ensue in this fic. It's been,,,, a rough couple of weeks lately and I combat all of my own sadness by projecting. Whoops. 
> 
> Trigger warning for gendered slurs/slurs used against LGBT characters. The full word is only ever used once towards the middle, but if this bothers anyone PLEASE don't read for your own safety okay? 
> 
> A HUGE thanks to Emma and Julez for betaing this... disaster. I love y'all.
> 
> Anyways, without further adieu, carry on!

TJ wakes up knowing the day is going to be bad. Something about it just feels... _ off _ . Maybe it’s the way the sun is invisible behind a thick oatmeal colored sky. Maybe it’s the fact that his parents are already at each other’s throats first thing this morning. Maybe it’s his baby sister crying her lungs out in the room beside him. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s— _ oh shit, he’s late for school! _ __  
  
He tumbles of out bed with a heavy thud, blankets tangled tight around his legs. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he picks himself up off the ground and hurries to dress himself in a deeply wrinkled t-shirt and a pair of jeans he probably should have washed already. He doesn’t have time to fix his hair the way he usually would, so instead he quickly runs his fingers through it to at least make it lay somewhat better. Contacts—where are his contacts? The tiny bathroom connected to his bedroom is a disaster, and he knows he’ll hear all about it when he gets home later, but at this point in time it’s all he can do to blink his contacts into place and race out of his room, stumbling down the narrow hallway to the front door. His parents don’t even stop arguing long enough to tell him goodbye.   
  
When he gets to school, he’s out of breath. He leans over, resting his hands on his knees, forcing air into his lungs. Usually walking to school isn’t too bad. But when he has to run the whole way, it’s less than ideal. It was times like this which left him wishing he had an older sibling who had a car. Someone who could drive him, if he pleaded enough, maybe. As it was, he didn’t even have an older sibling. It was nice to dream, though.

 

He stops by the school office on his way to class, and the attendance secretary gives him a look that he  _ knows  _ is disappointment. He feels like shrinking in on himself, making himself as small as possible. Even as the secretary hands him a late pass, he is profoundly thankful there is no one else his age around to witness his tardiness.    
  
On the walk to class, he talks himself back up, telling himself that no one knows what goes on at home and that he wants to keep it that way, but he can’t help but think about how his father was going to be  _ so  _ pissed later. Hopefully the school would call his mom at home. Hopefully she would keep this secret, and if not for his sake than for her own. They both knew his father would lash out, even without a reason. 

 

TJ tries to shake his worries about later from his mind, and he straightens his back, squares his shoulders, and holds his head up in the confident way he usually does. It feels way more exhausting than it should.    
  
When TJ gets to class, it’s half way through his first period, and he sees several pairs of people with their desks pushed together and heads bent low over worksheets as they chatter about what he assumes is their assignment. He walks up to the teacher, Miss Brown, and hands her the late slip with his eyes downcast. She’s frowning, because it’s the second time that week, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even do anything beyond hand him the worksheet packet and tell him to go sit down. With his jaw clenched tight, he takes the worksheet and walks to the back of the class, where his seat is empty and pushed up next to Cyrus’s desk. They’ve spent the past few months in this seating arrangement, and they always chose to be partners in any class they shared. It provided a convenient excuse to spend more time together without any of their friends catching on to— well, the fact that they were dating. They had been dating for months now, right underneath everyone else’s noses. He’s semi-surprised that no one has caught onto their relationship with Cyrus’s best friends, Buffy and Andi, being as nosy as they are, but he’s grateful that they hadn’t. No one could know. Not yet.   
  
As soon as the other boy sees him, TJ smiles. It’s still tight and a little bit forced, but it’s a smile.  _ Thank whatever god is out there for this, _ TJ thinks, sliding into his seat.  _ Maybe today won’t be so bad after all. _ __  
  
Cyrus, for his part, returns TJ’s smile and turns the paper so TJ can see the answers he has so far. “Hey,” he says, “everything okay?”    
  
TJ nods, even though it’s not. He tells himself that he’ll tell Cyrus later, when they don’t have twenty-three of their peers surrounding them. He drops his right hand below the desk, and feels Cyrus lace their fingers together a second later, resting their hands in his lap. The tension from his body leaves as Cyrus squeezes his hand comfortingly, and TJ can’t help but think how grateful he is to have such an amazingly supportive boyfriend like Cyrus.   
  
They spend the rest of the class swapping answers and stories and useless information, and TJ is so thankful for the distraction that it hurts. The rest of the day flashes in fits and bursts. It feels like the only time TJ can concentrate is when Cyrus is around.    
  


* * *

  
Cyrus is in the changing room after gym, locked in a stall, his heart hammering angrily against his rib cage. Usually he times it so that he’s the only person left to change before lunch so that he doesn’t have to hide how uncomfortable he is with changing around other people, but moments after he stood up from the bench to take his PE shirt off, the door squeaked open, and he scrambled to gather up his things without being seen.    
  
Of course with his luck it just has to be a group of people.  He knows this because there’s more than one person talking, jeering, laughing, and it only makes his anxiety spike even higher. At first, he can’t make out what they’re saying, but then his ears catch on a name that stops him cold.    
  
“—did you see that Goodman kid today?”   
  
“—can’t even throw a damn dodgeball.”    
  
“I heard he was—”   
  
Him. They’re talking about  _ him _ . Cyrus holds his breath, torn between getting angry and being worried. The group’s words blur together, and the only ones he hears clearly are...awful.    
  
“He’s a total pixie, didn’t y’all know?”    
  
“Shit, dude, that’s obvious. Loser is a total f—”    
  
“ _ Gross _ , man, I don’t want to think about that right now.”    
  
Cyrus settles on being sad. Rightfully so, but knowing that doesn’t help how uncomfortable it is. It’s like all the blood in his veins is freezing, clotting, turning to slush. His ears are ringing, and panic is rising up in his chest. He’s going to wind up in a full blown anxiety attack if he doesn’t get out of the room immediately, he knows. His mouth is doing that tingly thing where it feels like if he swipes his tongue over his lips he’ll vomit.    
  
_ I need to leave, I need to leave, I need to leave _ , his brain chants at him. His mind is whirring at a million miles a minute as he tugs on his shirt, then his sweater.  _ Why did I wear so many layers today? _ He shoves his feet into his shoes, and then throws the stall door open with more force than intended. It hits the wall with a bang, and when Cyrus rounds the corner, the group of guys stare wide-eyed at him, which makes Cyrus feel like a caged animal in a zoo that everyone keeps gaping at.  _ I would  _ so  _ much rather be at the zoo right now, _ he thinks to himself.   
  
When he recognizes the boys, his stomach sinks. They’re TJ’s friends. Or his teammates at least. The taste of copper floods his mouth from where his teeth punctured his cheek. The ringleader, a broad shouldered eighth grader, glowers at him. Cyrus hurries out, breath short, followed by their jeers and snickers. The tears burning at his eyes threaten to spill down his cheeks, and he can’t help but think how humiliated he is. How everything is humiliating.  _ He  _ is humiliating. He needs to get to TJ.

 

* * *

  
In between classes, they make plans to meet up after school at the park. It was inconspicuous enough that it could look like they were just hanging out. It wasn’t a date, really. It couldn’t be, but it still settled the weird feeling in TJ’s chest for a while. He found himself alone at the swing set, absentmindedly scuffing his shoes on the ground while he waited. A light touch on his back sends his stomach lurching, but he looks back to see Cyrus, smiling, always a soft sunny light.    
  
“Hey, again,” he says, moving to stand in front of TJ. With the other boy sitting in the swing, they’re the same height. Cyrus settles against him, a comfortable weight.    
  
“Hi,” TJ answers, keeping his hands on the swing chains. He wants to wrap his arms around Cyrus and bury his face in his neck and just let the rest of the world fade out of existence.    
  
“Are you okay?” Cyrus asks, concern taking over his expression. He’s the only one who knows about the rough waters TJ has to deal with at home. He’s the only person TJ has opened up to enough to tell. He can always seem to tell when things get bad. It’s in the way TJ holds himself higher, like it’s a force of habit. It’s in the way his hair is just a little too messy. It’s in the way his eyes gloss over like he’s retreating into himself.    
  
TJ sighs. “They were fighting again. They’re always fighting.”    
  
He tells him that he isn’t even sure why this time. Just that they were. He tells him about the baby, crying alone in her crib, and how it hurt something awful having to leave her because he had to get to school. He tells him about how he had a dream the night before that the world fell out from underneath him, and took everything important with it.    
  
Somewhere in all of his rambling, Cyrus had pulled him close, had wrapped his arms around him. TJ rested his head on Cyrus’ shoulder, and he was silently thankful that he was there. Always so thankful. Warmth seeps through Cyrus’ clothes and into TJ’s cheek where he’s rested. Everything outside of them fades, in and out and back again, until TJ calms down enough to avoid the angry tears that had built up over his own words.    
  
And then—the world breaks again. TJ can feel Cyrus tense up, can hear the hum of conversation coming towards them. Kids from their school, pushing each other around. Cyrus steps back, and it feels like he’s falling. Like they’re both falling. TJ curls his hands around the swing chains so tightly his knuckles are bleached of any color. He should be used to this by now. Used to Cyrus pulling away when others are around. But he isn’t. And he never wants to be.    
  
The people pass, but Cyrus doesn’t come back to him. Doesn’t step closer again. The moment is cold now, empty. When Cyrus turns his face back to TJ, he’s swiping at his eyes.    
  
“What’s wrong?” It’s automatic, worried. TJ wants to reach out and wipe the tears away himself, but he’s scared. Scared that Cyrus will shy away from him again. Scared that the world really is falling to pieces. “Cyrus, why are you crying?” 

 

Cyrus opens his mouth to speak, but the only thing that fumbles from his lips is a strangled cry. It physically  _ hurts  _ seeing him like that and not knowing what he can do. 

 

“Cy, baby, I’m here. I’m here, what’s wrong?” 

 

“I—people know, TJ,” he finally manages to get out, “they  _ know _ . O-or they’re speculating a-and it’s all wrong. Everything is  _ wrong _ . I’m sorry—I’m so so sorry. I was supposed to be comforting you and I can’t even do that right just— _ I’m sorry.” _

 

_ Oh no _ , TJ thinks, anxiety squeezing into the space right next to his heart,  _ oh no _ . He reaches out with a shaky hand, but Cyrus steps back, just out of reach.  _ God. “ _ Cyrus, what—what are you even talking about? How could anyone know? Who knows?” 

 

Cyrus looks up at him, and he looks so torn up. It looks all wrong. “Your  _ friends _ , TJ.  _ They know _ . What, did you tell them? Was it some joke you all shared at practice?”

 

The words are poison, a snakebite sent straight to his heart. “What? Cy, come on, a joke? I would—I would never do that.  _ Never _ . They’d turn on me just as fast, and you  _ know _ that.” 

 

Cyrus presses his lips together, covers his face with his hands. And then—he’s manic. His shoulders shaking, and TJ doesn’t know if he’s laughing or crying, or both. All he knows is that his boyfriend is stepping back, further away from him. Further, further, further. TJ feels like he’s coming undone, untethered in a storm. “They called me—they said I was a  _ fag _ , TJ.” He’s visibly trembling, and the way his voice caught on that…  _ slur _ makes TJ feel sick.

 

He bristles. TJ stands from the swing, anger rising, taking hold of every piece of anxiety and turning them bitter. “ _ They did what now?! _ Who was it? I’ll go talk to them. I’ll— I’ll—”

 

“You won’t do anything.” Cyrus says.  His voice is so soft it’s almost completely gone. “You won’t.” 

 

“But, I  _ will _ , Cyrus, I… I need to help you somehow.” 

 

Cyrus shakes his head, a frown taking over his face. His eyes are shiny with a fresh wave of tears and TJ is so close to crying himself that he feels like his mind is completely fogged over. “Please, TJ, this isn’t your fight.” 

 

“It  _ is _ .” 

 

“No. I—no. It’s not, TJ, it’s mine. Just…I have to go. I can’t do this. I just—I’m sorry. I need to go.” 

 

It feels like he’s stuck in cement, watching Cyrus walk away. TJ calls after him, voice cracking, but he doesn’t stop. As he walks away, Cyrus visibly closes himself off. He makes himself as small as he can, tucks his arms around himself, and disappears into the hazy afternoon.

* * *

 

Could this day possibly get any worse? TJ feels numb the whole walk home. Or—not quite numb, but  _ staticky _ , like the way an old TV looks when it’s not on a channel. 

 

His father is gone when he walks up to the rundown house. He pushes the rusty fence open, dragging his feet. The front door is unlocked, and the house feels too quiet. There is no sound coming from anywhere, no TV playing in the living room, no music from his mom’s old record player, no gurgling from the baby. He drops his bag on the floor just beyond the doorway to his room and treks through the house. 

 

His mom is standing in the kitchen, right hand curled around her left hip, left hand pressed to her mouth. She’s wrapped in a threadbare robe, her hair in a flyaway-ridden bun. TJ doesn’t remember her looking so shallow when he left. His father has the ability to zap all the life out of someone if he’s around long enough. 

 

“Mama?” He keeps his voice soft and even, like he’s talking to a wild animal that may spook any moment. She doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge that she even heard him. He wonders, briefly, if she’s getting bad again. Wouldn’t that just be their luck? 

 

He steps further into the room, padding over to her. She’s staring out the tiny window over the sink. TJ thinks that maybe she’s watching some animal walk across the yard, but when he looks out the window after her, there isn’t anything there. He places a hand on her shoulder, and she jolts. Her face is blank when she looks at him. “Mama, are you okay?” 

 

She blinks, her tongue darts out to wet her lips, “Oh, hi, sweets. Is school over already?” 

 

He frowns, “Mama, it’s almost five o’clock.” 

 

“Oh,” she looks surprised, like she didn’t notice time passing. That couldn’t be good. “Oh. I—I guess I should start dinner then, huh? What would you like?” She steps past him, starting to scavenge through the pantry for something to make, “Soup? It might be all we have to make at this point. Maybe I can—” 

 

“Where is Curren? Is she sleeping?” He cuts in, increasingly worried about not only his mother, but his baby sister as well. Their mother was obviously in no state to take care of _ herself _ , let alone the baby. 

 

“Oh, yes, yes the baby. She’s asleep. Oh, what time did you say it was? Shoot, five o’clock? Sweets, she’s been sleeping for… I don’t know how long, I need to go check on her.” She’s holding a dented can of corn when she turns around to face him, a bewildered look on her face.  _ God.  _

 

“I’ll go check, Mama.” TJ says, gentle, “I’ve got it.” 

 

His mother nods, turning back to the pantry. She’s muttering to herself as he walks away. Evidentially, the day  _ could _ get much worse. 

 

The nursery door is shut when he reaches it. He presses his ear to the door, listening. There’s a gentle cooing coming from the other side, indicating that the baby is awake. He turns the knob, opening the door just enough to slip into the room. 

 

“Hi, Curren,” he whispers, soft in the air. His sister, barely eight-and-a-half months old, turns her head towards the sound of his voice. He stands over the crib, gently lifting her up by placing his hands underneath her arms. “How are you, love?” 

 

She gurgles happily at him, tiny dimples curving crescents in her cheeks. He takes her over to the changing table, bouncing her carefully on his hip to keep her happy. Even when he lays her down on the changing table, she’s grinning at him, tiny button nose scrunched up. Sometimes TJ wonders how such a messy family was able to produce such a pure bundle of joy. If someone asked where TJ was happiest, the easiest answer would be  _ with her,  _ right after  _ with Cyrus. _

 

His stomach twists painfully when he thinks about the look on Cyrus’ face when he walked away earlier that day. He doesn’t want to dwell on it. Doesn’t want to even  _ think _ about what his leaving could mean. Where did they even stand anymore? 

 

Turning his focus back to Curren, he buttons up her onesie and carries her with him to the kitchen. Their mom is flitting around now, chopping up potatoes and dropping them into a large cast iron pot in the stove. He sets Curren down in her high chair and drops a handful of strawberry puffs into the tray. She picks them up one by one with her little fingers.

 

“Can I help with anything?” he asks, leaning up against the small island in the middle of the room. His mother glances back at him over her shoulder, and instead of speaking she pushes the cutting board a little to her left, so TJ can take over. 

 

The chopping helps distract him: from his parents arguing earlier, from being late to school, from Cyrus walking away from him, from  _ everything _ . It’s easy, mindless work, and he’s glad to have a break. 

 

They fall into a rhythm—TJ chopping all of the vegetables, his mother dropping them into the pot and throwing in random broths and seasonings, Curren gurgling along to their conversation. It felt nice, calm and easy, the way it did when he was younger and his father would disappear for weeks at a time, leaving TJ with only his mother. Some of TJ’s earliest memories are of him and his mother in the kitchen, cooking or baking, talking the time away. It was always better with his father gone. His best memories never included him, anyway.

 

They eat dinner crowded together at one end of the dining table, TJ and his mother sitting on opposite sides with the baby in the middle at the head of the table. TJ finds himself rambling about anything he can think of, partially to keep the room from falling too quiet, partially to keep his mother from retreating inside of herself. He took after her that way. When he finishes eating, he pushes his chair away from the table, offering to wash the dishes. His mother nods, absentmindedly, her focus on getting Curren to do more than squish potato between her fingers.

* * *

 

The fall sun has set early, and after the kitchen had been cleaned up and sorted, TJ helped take care of Curren and sent their mother up to bed. He held firmly to the belief that if he made things as easy as possible for his mom, she wouldn’t get bad again. He could hope, at least.

  
He settles onto his bed, checking his phone to see if Cyrus had texted him at all. Nothing. The only notification on the screen is a reminder of some upcoming test from his science teacher. He frowns. Cyrus usually texts him nonstop, so the radio silence wasn’t sitting well with him. TJ types in the password to unlock his phone, immediately going to dial Cyrus’ number. The dial tone rings. 

 

And rings. 

  
And rings. 

 

_ Hey, it’s Cyrus. Sorry I couldn’t come to the phone— _

 

TJ ends the call, feeling sick. Something has to be really wrong in order for Cyrus to send him to voicemail. Was it about what happened earlier? At the swingset? Was  _ that  _ why Cyrus was ignoring him?  _ God _ . 

 

He calls back, hoping Cyrus will pick up this time.  _ Hoping hoping hoping _ . 

 

The call goes straight to voicemail. Again. It doesn’t even ring this time. 

 

TJ tosses his phone away, his hands shaking. His breath is coming in short, quick bursts. It’s like the walls are closing in—like the air itself is turning solid, pressing in on his chest until the panic takes over. 

 

_ This is it _ , he thinks.  _ It’s over _ . 

 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: heartlessromantik


End file.
